Worldbinder r-6

by David Farland

  “Sisel,” Fallion said, staring at the map. “What have I done?”

  “We…are not yet certain,” Sisel said. “It will take months, perhaps even years, to learn the extent of the change. But the Earth Spirit whispers peace to my soul.”

  “We have family in Landesfallen!” Jaz said.

  “My heart tells me that they live and love you still,” Sisel replied softly. “Many changes have taken place, but haven’t you noticed-no one, to my knowledge, found themselves in a river or pond. I believe that there is a good reason for that. It was inherent in the spell you used to bind the worlds together.”

  Fallion suspected that Sisel was right.

  Still, he was not completely at ease.

  High King Urstone approached slowly, put a hand upon Jaz’s shoulder, and whispered words of comfort. Sisel translated. “If we live through this night, an expedition will be sent out to map our new world, to find survivors, and to claim them as allies and friends.”

  “Thank you,” Jaz said, trying to hold back a sob.

  “You are welcome,” Sisel translated. “And now, the King has a question for you. His champions are taking endowments even as we speak, and he thanks you for the use of the forcibles. But he wonders if you would like to take endowments this night, too?”

  “Tell him no,” Fallion said. “We thank him for the offer, but he will be better off having one champion with forty endowments than eight champions with five.”

  “The king agrees with you,” Sisel said after listening to the king, “and is also foregoing the kiss of the forcible. He wants you and Jaz to follow him.”

  The king left the war room and its maps and retainers, took Fallion and Jaz through a rich red curtain, back through a short hall.

  A second audience room opened. On the floor were three sets of enormous wings, like those of a bat. Each set was splayed wide. A thin red membrane connected the struts. To Fallion, they looked like living flesh, cut from a body.

  “These are yours,” Sisel told Fallion and Jaz. “You two slew their previous owners, and the king has proclaimed them yours, as spoils of war.”

  “Great,” Jaz said, trying to lighten the mood. “So, how do we cook them?”

  “They are not to eat,” Sisel said. “They are to wear. He wishes for you to put them on before the battle. It may well be that you are forced to escape, and these would be a great aid. You can travel faster than a horse, and few could catch you. The Knights Eternal might, but they will not fly in the full sunlight. Remember that.

  “Such wings are exceedingly rare. We do not believe that the enemy has more than a dozen pair, all told.

  “Most of all,” Sisel continued, “these will aid you in your travels. You need to go to Courts of Tide and begin to enlist the help of your people. With these, you could be there by noon tomorrow.”

  “How do they work?” Jaz asked, excitement rising in his tone.

  “Work?” Sisel asked. “Just put them on. It will take a few minutes for your body to learn how to respond, and it will be weeks or months before you become proficient with them. But in time they work like your legs do, without any thought on your part.”

  Jaz hurried to the nearest set of wings, picked them up. Each wing met at the back and joined. When he lifted them, the wings began to fold, leaving their tips upon the floor. Where the wings joined was a pair of spikes, as white as bone, each about ten inches long. The spikes were wet, as if they had just been cleaned, but Fallion could see blood on them. Their purpose was obvious. Fallion could see that if he pulled the wings up onto his shoulder at the apex, the spikes would have to be inserted through his flesh.

  “Are you afraid?” King Urstone asked.

  “I,” Jaz began. “They look too big for me.”

  “They are fine for someone your size,” Sisel said. “Besides, it is better if they are a little large. All the better to get the wind beneath you. Your glide will last longer, and your flights will be farther. Did you not notice that the Knights Eternal choose bodies that are smaller than those of most wyrmlings? This is the reason.”

  “Does it hurt?” Jaz asked.

  Sisel admitted, “More than you’d like.”

  “I’ll go first,” Fallion offered.

  He went to a set of wings, picked them up, and grabbed onto the bonelike prongs. He set the prongs up on his shoulder, in front of the clavicle. The design suggested that they should fit that way, but he wondered if the prongs would pierce a lung or some other vital organ. Perhaps it was meant to go behind the clavicle. “Like this?” he asked the wizard.

  “Take off your tunic,” Sisel suggested. “You don’t want to get blood on it.”

  Fallion removed the tunic and his cape, leaving only his black leather trousers.

  Sisel adjusted the wings, so that the apex met at the center of his back and the prongs set just in the flesh of his shoulder in front of each clavicle. He said, “About there, I would think.”

  Without further warning, Sisel shoved the wings on. The spikes pierced Fallion like lances, and he felt white-hot fire in them. He staggered forward a step, suddenly growing faint, and fell to one knee.

  He could feel the spikes twisting, seeming to bend back, fusing with his scapula.

  For a moment, the wings were just dead weight on his back. Blood oozed from the wounds, running in rivulets down his back, and he imagined that he would die.

  And then, an instant later, the wings came to life. He could feel the skin between the webbing as if it were his own skin, could feel blood coursing from wingtip to wingtip.

  Without a thought the wings began to flap on their own, clumsily at first, but he could feel the lift in them, as if they were sails catching a strong wind.

  Then he flapped them consciously, stretching out, grasping at air, pulling down eagerly so that his feet suddenly lifted off the floor.

  The pain eased quickly, and Fallion said in wonder, “It’s, it’s like getting…new hands. You can feel everything.”

  “And it hurts?” Jaz asked.

  It hurt. Fallion could still feel the pain. The spikes in his shoulder still burned, but the sensation was swallowed up in joy and wonder.

  “A bit,” Fallion admitted.

  “I think maybe I’d still rather eat them than wear them,” Jaz said.

  “The pain will dull in a few minutes,” Sisel offered. “In a week, the wings will feel as if they were born to you.”

  King Urstone fitted his own wings upon him, and Sisel gave them a shove. He did not stumble as Fallion had, but only stood for a moment, wincing, until the pain began to subside.

  He spoke, and Sisel translated. “Come. Let us take our maiden flight!”

  Sisel drew Jaz’s wings to his shoulder and let them pierce him, and eagerly Fallion followed the king down a short corridor and into an alcove that had been gouged into the cliff.

  Here, the folk of the city could come for a breath of fresh air when they tired of the tunnels, or could stand and peer out over the countryside. Only a low rock wall stood between them and death.

  They were high above the ground, hundreds of feet up the mountainside. Fallion had known that he was traveling up as he walked through the twisting hallways, but he hadn’t realized how far they had climbed. The wind was boisterous, gusting this way and that. A layer of clouds had begun to rush in from the east, blotting out the stars. The brightest light came from down below, from the spirits of Luciare’s guardians. Blue-white, the light reflected from the city walls onto the grounds below.

  “What do we do now?” Jaz asked nervously.

  High King Urstone climbed up on the rock wall and stood for a moment, his legs shaking nervously.

  “You’ve seen young birds leave the nest?” the Wizard Sisel asked. “Do what they do!”

  “Most of the young birds I’ve seen,” Jaz said, “wind up dead at the bottom of some tree.” The king stood for several moments, flapping his wings experimentally. “Isn’t it kind of windy?”

  Then Urst
one jumped, and went plummeting.

  Fallion raced to the edge of the balcony, stood peering down. He could see the king flapping frantically, his wings catching for a moment, then seeming to lose purchase.

  The king screamed, and Fallion thought that he was dead, that he would crash onto the rocks below, but suddenly the wind caught beneath his wings, and he went soaring for a few dozen yards, then flapped frantically, canted to the left, and soared again. The king screamed again, and Fallion realized that he was not screaming in fear, he was shouting in exultation.

  “I’m next,” Fallion said, and before he could change his mind, he took a running leap and jumped over the cliff.

  He forced the wings to beat rapidly, found his heart pumping hard from exertion. He rose as he did.

  It was not effortless, not like the childhood dreams he’d had of floating across the sky like a wind-blown leaf. He found that he had to concentrate. He had to pull the wings in and up on the up-stroke, stretch them wide on the down. He had to pull them forward vigorously to gain speed, let them relax when he soared.

  It was not easy. In fact, it was hard, like running a race.

  And it was pure ecstasy.

  Fallion fluttered about the tower, and found that he had a better knack for it than the king did.

  Perhaps it’s the weight, Fallion thought. The wings were all roughly the same size, but the king, with his warrior clan blood, outweighed Fallion by at least a hundred pounds, probably closer to a hundred and fifty.

  In moments, Jaz came winging up beside him, and shouted, “Let’s go over that hill!”

  He pointed to a hill at least four miles away, a dark hump rising out of the night, stately evergreens at its peak, all weathered and blasted by lightning over the years.

  And so they raced, laughing, as they had done when they were children, their wings beating rhythmically. Fallion thrilled to the wind coursing beneath his wings, and fought back tears. In a choked voice he said, “When last I rode a graak, I thought I would never fly again.”

  “I think,” Jaz shouted, “we could give those graaks a good race, now.”

  And it was true.

  They reached the hill in less than four minutes, but the quick flight left Fallion with sweat streaming down his cheek, sweat that would quickly dry in the cool night air. They circled the trees, looked out above the valley in the distance-and saw the wyrmling horde.

  It was miles away. A few stars still shone over the valley, and by their pale light Fallion could see wyrmlings in the distance, starlight glinting on their bone helms. They looked like cockroaches thick upon a floor, for they covered the land.

  There were larger things among them, a trio of moving hills and enormous lizard-like kezziards, while giant graaks winged sluggishly above, casting vast shadows. And fluttering around them were tinier figures, like midges, the Knights Eternal.

  “Come on,” Fallion said in rising concern. He glanced back toward their mountain fortress, its peak gleaming white in the distance. “Let’s go.”

  THE GATHERING OF THE HORDE

  A lord must have armies to daunt and destroy his enemies. To lead his armies, he must elevate the most intimidating of his troops. Therefore, if you would be a great leader, it is imperative that you learn the finer points to the art of intimidation.

  — Emperor Zul-torac, advice to his daughter

  The night filled with snarls and roars as new troops joined the wyrmling horde camped on the plains below Luciare.

  Soldiers had been gathering from the east and the north. The great giant graaks had come just after midnight, with the Knights Eternal in their wake. And there was word that a wyrmling host had slaughtered a human army at Cantular. Each new addition had been a cause for celebration, until now.

  The troops that joined the camp now wore black robes with the symbol of the great wyrm emblazoned in red-a circle with a world wyrm rising from it. But they also wore black helms and had their cape pins adorned with the skulls of wolves, covered in silver foil. These were the emperor’s elite troops, the fang guard.

  Their skin had gone gray, and their faces had the emaciated look of those who are more dead than alive.

  They growled and shoved as they made their way through the throng, clubbing or kicking lesser warriors who were too slow to move out of the way. Their eyes had gone red with rage, and the air felt stifling with menace.

  The Death Lord watched as the fang guard leader approached, his face distorted by wrath. He glared up at the Death Lord, who had been standing upon a pinnacle of rock, peering out over his wondrous army.

  “Fourteen fang guards reporting for duty,” the captain said.

  The Death Lord did not like the looks of him.

  “Grovel,” the Death Lord commanded. It was only right that such creatures debase themselves before him.

  The captain lowered his neck slowly, as if it were made of steel and he could bend it only with great difficulty. His eyes blazed.

  There is something wrong with these troops, the Death Lord realized. The whole world seemed to have turned upside down. There were forests where there should be none. Some of his troops had vanished during the great change, and others now claimed to recall other lives lived upon another world. Two of the men had even shown marvelous powers, gained from wondrous runes.

  What had become of the fang guard? Obviously, he thought, the emperor has placed some spell upon them, to make them more feral. Perhaps it was an experiment, with some new type of harvester spike. Still, he thought, I cannot allow them to show insubordination.

  The Death Lord leapt thirty feet to the ground so that he could stand before the captain, his black robes fluttering as he landed.

  He reached out to the captain, his hand but a shadow that escaped from his robe, and raked the captain lightly between the eyes with a single fingernail.

  The captain’s gray skin flayed wide, and blood oozed from the wound.

  The captain struggled to retain control, but his wrath would not let him. He trembled and shook from head to foot, as if straining to keep from lashing out.

  He should have showed no emotion at all.

  What a waste, the Death Lord thought, realizing that he would have to kill the soldier. Then the Death Lord uttered a small curse.

  With a sound of shredding, the captain’s flesh began to rip from his body. Skin peeled away like parchment. His robes and armor were rent as if by some great beast.

  There in the pale light, the Death Lord suddenly glimpsed runes upon the creature’s pale skin-runes of strength, speed, stamina, and bloodlust.

  Ah, the Death Lord realized, our master is experimenting with some new magic. He must have sent these reinforcements only hours ago!

  That seemed almost impossible. They would have had to run hundreds of leagues in a single night. But the Death Lord could not deny the evidence.

  And I, he thought, have killed one of her special tools. I will have to hide the deed, for it is too late to stop.

  Again and again the tearing came. The captain roared and fell to his knees, naked, while skin continued to flay, exposing fat and muscle. In a moment he pitched forward and lay silently twitching as the peeling continued.

  The Death Lord peered upward. A layer of clouds sealed the heavens, blocking even the starlight. Upon the mount, just four miles away, Luciare shone with intense brightness, lit by lesser spirits.

  The Death Lord had far more than he needed in the way of armaments, men, and spells to take the castle. There would never be a better time for a bloodbath.

  A MEETING OF THE MINDS

  A mastiff is bred for battle. The spinner dog is bred to turn a wheel. The beagle is bred to hunt rabbits and foxes. But what was I bred for?

  Reason tells me that I have no purpose in life-that I am only the byproduct of my father’s lust and my mother’s want for affection.

  But my heart whispers that I am free to choose my own purpose and to create my own destiny.

  — Alun

  Horns
blared throughout Luciare, clear horns as piercing as the cold of a mid-winter’s night, horns that told a tale of wyrmlings toiling up the slopes of the mountain.

  Alun raced down the hallways to the lower levels. As he did, he heard shouts. “Warlord Madoc has returned! He stopped the wyrmlings at Cantular!”

  Alun could hardly believe the good news.

  The city was shut. Huge slabs of rock had been brought to seal every portico, every window. Through the hard work of thousands, the city’s defenses had been repaired in only a day. From outside, the stones fit so cleanly that it would be hard even to tell where the openings had been.

  Inside the castle, light and life were everywhere. Children had been put to work lighting extra thumb-lanterns and placing them in the lower corridors where the wyrmlings would first enter. The stark white walls reflected the light, making the halls almost as light as day.

  Flowers were strewn upon the floor, fresh leaves of rose and lavender and pennyroyal, so that a sweet scent filled the city. With each step, Alun perfumed the halls, and seeds were strewn beside the flowers-poppy and bean, wheat and rye.

  It made the footing all that more treacherous.

  Alun gained the lowest levels and had to fight his way past warriors in order to reach the portal.

  Outside Warlord Madoc and his sons could be seen marching up the city streets now, capes flapping behind them, faces grim, only moments ahead of the wyrmling hordes. Crowds of warriors cheered them as triumphant heroes. Alun could see the wyrmlings racing up the mountain road, just moments behind, but Madoc was safely within the city walls.

  Last of all among the returning heroes, came the Emir of Dalharristan, head lowered in humility. There were so few troops returning, Alun saw, that this could not really be celebrated as a victory.

  “Ten thousand wyrmlings they slew!” someone shouted. “They died on the bridge of Cantular.”

  Madoc trudged up to the main gate and made to pass Alun. “Milord,” Alun begged, “if I may have a moment?”